


Leadership Qualities

by BananaStickers



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Business Negotiations, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Nobody Is Their Best Self, Power Dynamics, Power Plays, Sunk Cost Fallacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-14 08:32:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16036787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BananaStickers/pseuds/BananaStickers
Summary: The Toronto Maple Leafs have decided to go with three Alternate Captains for the 2018-2019 season.  No Captain has yet been named.Multiple men want that 'C' stitched on their chest.  And that means the power plays aren't just happening on the ice this year.





	1. Auston Matthews / John Tavares

“It’s gonna look good on you, y’know.”

John Tavares nearly jumps at the soft voice; he hadn’t even known anyone was here in the restroom with him. He’s not used to the Toronto attention quite yet, not when New York could be so anonymous. So even though he’s in the bathroom of an upscale restaurant, just a few feet from the urinals, he’s not terribly surprised to be approached.

He turns around from the sink, hands still wet, smile plastered to his face to greet whatever fan this is, but instead it’s Auston Matthews. He’s wearing a small, careful smirk that doesn’t go up to his eyes.

John's smile collapses into a frown as he grabs a paper towel and wipes his hands off. “Matty? Sorry, what’s gonna look good on me?”

“The ‘A’.”

_Oh._ The ‘A’. The Leafs had just announced John, Patrick Marleau and Morgan Rielly as the alternate captains for the year. No ‘C’ handed out yet, but John knows that Auston is gunning for it. On any other team it’s likely that he’d have already been given it; if Toronto was in a Crosby or McDavid situation where there was nobody else _except_ that young superstar to hand it to, surrounded by has-beens and never-would-bes.

But Toronto is different. Toronto has talent outside of Auston; that’s why John chose to come here.

He tries for a joke in response: “Yeah, well the ‘C’ will look good on me, too,” he says, and he instantly knows it was the wrong thing to say. Auston’s pretense of a smile drops off his face, and he reaches behind him and locks the bathroom door. John thinks of their teammates, on the other side of the door in the restaurant, and what would happen if any of them came by and tried the door and it was locked. That’s strange, right? “Matty, uh - _Auston_ \- that was a joke.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Auston says, and his voice echoes strangely in the space. His expression is still unreadable. “I know you want it.”

Thing is, the kid’s not wrong. One of the big reasons John signed with the Leafs was the prospect of winning the Cup for his childhood team, to break the long-standing drought, become a hometown hero. And the idea of the Leafs winning the Cup and that big shiny silver chalice being handed to _John Tavares_ first...John, resplendent in white and blue, the ‘C’ stitched to his chest, showing the Toronto crowd the prize they’ve been craving since 1967, hearing the roar of approval. That picture of him with the Cup would be in every newspaper in Canada the next day. It would make it into the Hall of Fame. Hell, maybe they’d even make a _statue_ out of it.

John wants it, as bad as he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

“Maybe,” he concedes. “I know you want it, too. We’ll just have to see what management says, eh? You’d be a great captain.” He tries to say this last part sincerely. Maybe Auston _would_ make a great captain - but not now. Not at 21 years old.

“Don’t patronize me,” Auston says, and that smile that’s not quite a smile is back on his face. “You already think it’s yours. We both know they won’t give it to Patty, not with his retirement so imminent, and Mo isn’t captain material. At least not over either of us.”

“All I know is that I have the ‘A’ right now, and I’m going to do right by it.” John tries to move past Auston, thinking of his steak sitting there and getting cold, but Auston isn’t having it, moving deftly into John’s personal space.

“Why don’t you think it could be me? What d'you think you have that’s better?” he asks, and he’s close enough now that John can smell his breath. He expects there to be alcohol, something strong, for Auston to be at least a little drunk to be confronting him like this. But there’s nothing, maybe just the heavy smell of filet and asparagus.

“Auston,” he sighs, and now he’s having a hard time keeping the edge of exasperation from his voice.

_“Tell me.”_

“I just think you’re a little too young right now. That’s all.”

Auston smirks, shaking his head. “And you don’t know _shit_ about this team, Tavares. God, I just want to fucking bite that smug look off your face.”

John blinks; did he hear that correctly? “Um, excuse me?”

“See, I told you. You don’t know shit about this team.” Auston reaches forward and deftly untucks the shirt from John’s waistband, rucking it up to his stomach. “You don’t know our inside jokes, or the trials we’ve been through, or how we settle disputes. But I’m a nice guy, Johnny, so I’m gonna show you.”

The name _Johnny_ puts John’s teeth on edge, not to mention Auston’s warm fingertips crawling up his abs, but before he can say anything, Auston has yanked him inside one of the bathroom stalls and is kissing him. John finds himself with his shoulders pressed against the metal side of the stall, cold even through his button-down shirt, with Auston’s tongue swiping hot against the crease of his closed lips. “Lemme in,” he demands softly, pressing his hips to John’s at the same time.

Auston’s obvious erection causes his mouth to fall open - maybe in surprise, maybe in desire, John isn’t quite sure. But then Auston’s tongue is in his mouth, and John moans helplessly at the intrusion. He reaches up to clutch at Auston’s shirt, not sure if he wants to push him away or pull him closer.

It’s a long few moments of frantic kissing as Auston’s hands skim down his body. Eventually, those big hands hover between John’s legs and _squeeze,_ just the right amount of friction, the touch sending a shiver through him. He’s lost his fucking mind, he thinks; here, kissing his young teammate next to a toilet, in a public bathroom, with his teammates right outside the door. John’s never even found Auston that attractive, but pressed against him, mouth hot and slick against his, hands rubbing his dick, he’s not sure he’s ever wanted anyone more.

“See, you don’t know,” Auston says against his mouth, his voice raspy. “When Mitchy needs taken care of, who knows how to do it? When Freddy has a bad game and needs comfort, is it gonna be you? Huh?”

“I can,” John says, and there’s a distinctive whine in his voice that he hates but is powerless to stop. “I can learn.”

“Let me learn how to take care of _you,_ Johnny,” Auston says, and then he’s unbuckling John’s belt without even looking, like he’s unbuckled a hundred belts before this one.

John feels his pants slipping down and snags them with one hand. It’s a _clean_ bathroom - the restaurant is an expensive one, after all - but it’s still a bathroom, and he would prefer his nice dress pants not scrape against the floor. Auston seems a little less concerned than John, backpedaling to sit on the toilet as he works John free from his briefs. “Oh, hello,” he practically purrs at the hard cock in his face, and he wastes absolutely no time taking it in his mouth.

John almost drops his pants on the floor. He can feel the head of his cock push into Auston’s throat, and there’s no gagging or choking from the younger man, just an effortless, deep blowjob. He has to reach out to steady himself on the wall above Auston’s head, and he wants so bad to grab Auston, clutch his slicked hair between his fingers and _yank_ , but he has no hands free. He can’t let go of the wall or he’ll fall right over, and he sure as hell isn’t going to get his pants wet. “Holy shit, Aus,” he groans instead.

Auston doesn’t respond. He’s got this expression on his face that John already recognizes from practice, the intense dark look he gets when he has some sort of challenge in front of him that he needs to conquer. That look, combined with the sight of his big lips wrapped around John’s cock, is already enough to put him on edge.

“Fuck,” he groans, and Auston must recognize that desperate huff because he pulls off, hand replacing his mouth. John’s disappointed for just a split second before Auston’s mouth finds its new target, sucking his balls into his mouth, and John hangs his head and comes with a low whine.

He can hear Auston’s satisfied groan, almost like he’s the one that came and not John. “Fuck, Aus,” he pants. “Can I, uh - what do you want…?”

“Oh, I already got what I want,” Auston says, standing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and John looks down and realizes his own dark blue button-up shirt is stained with come and wet spots, halfway up his stomach. It will be absolutely impossible to hide.

“What the fuck,” John mutters, trying to wipe away the come, which only serves to smear it down his shirt. The idea of going back to his seat, the _whole team_ knowing what they’ve done… “This is how you take care of me?”

“Oh yeah.” Auston pushes past him, out of the stall, starting to wash his hands. “And a reminder not to fuck with me, Johnny.” He grabs a paper towel, dries his hands, stares at John with a smile while he does so. “See you back at the table,” he says, unlocking the door and heading out.

John looks at himself in the mirror; rumpled, ruddy-faced, bright wet stains coating the front of his dress-shirt. He thinks again of his steak waiting for him at the table, cold and forgotten, and doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore.


	2. Morgan Rielly / Kyle Dubas

It’s odd to be _relieved_ when you see your season sweater for the first time, but that’s exactly how Morgan Rielly feels when he gets to the locker room for his first preseason game. The ‘A’ is still stitched there on the upper right chest, a stark white letter against the blue jersey. It wasn’t a guarantee, even though he had it last year; Auston has stepped up his game as the next big face of the Leafs, Marleau and Hainsey are major veteran presences, not to mention the Tavares signing. There was always a chance Morgan would lose that ‘A’ this year, but it’s still there, and he takes a moment to run his fingers along the letter. Morgan likes the font. It’s big and bold and in-your-face and it makes him feel like he’s got some job security in a league that promises absolutely nothing.

Morgan’s one of the few big names for the Leafs playing in the first preseason game against Ottawa, and he gets dressed while listening to the young guys chatter nervously. For him, this is just an extended cardio session; for some guys, it’s their only chance to really show the coaches what they’ve got. Preseason is always strange, a weird mix of veterans going through the motions and minor leaguers playing balls-to-the-wall.

He can _feel_ someone staring, a couple minutes before warmups, and Morgan expects it’s one of the rookies, but it’s not. When he looks up, he catches Auston Matthews, hands jammed in his suit pants, watching Morgan with a blank, unreadable expression. Normally the scratches would be up in the press box, but they’re playing in some little sleepy barn for Kraft Hockeyville, and most of the guys are milling around the locker room for lack of amenities elsewhere. “Sup, Matty,” he says, half a question, half a statement.

“Hey,” Auston smirks, and it’s - well, it’s kind of a _mean_ looking smirk. He brushes his hand over his chest, right where the ‘A’ would be if he were wearing Morgan’s jersey. “Looks good. Glad you kept it.”

“Oh, uh...thanks?” Morgan looks down at the ‘A’, like he has to confirm it’s still there, and when he glances back up, Auston’s already gone. Moved off and chatting with one of the coaching staff about tonight, as if he were playing, as if his opinion about anything that happens should hold any weight.

Auston doesn’t have the ‘A’ either, and it’s suddenly very, _very_ obvious to Morgan that he wants it; probably wants more than that, wants the ‘C’. And who wouldn’t? If they can pull this off and win it all, the captain of that Maple Leafs squad would be a hero. He’d be set for _life,_ even after hockey he could have his pick of just about any job in the Toronto area. Probably get some kind of cushy front-office position, or something in broadcasting. The autographs alone would be worth mint, working a couple hours a week signing and selling. The idea of that is appealing, to say the least; Morgan’s a pragmatic guy. He worries about money and his future probably more than a lot of the guys on the team. He doesn’t want to be that ex-NHLer that’s broke and working as an insurance agent 50 hours a week, remembering the good old days and what he had.

If he were captain, he’d never have to worry about that possibility.

Amidst the laughing and talking of the locker room, Morgan touches that ‘A’ on his chest and envisions it turning into a ‘C’, into fame and fortune and job security and a guaranteed future, and he _wants,_ oh does he want. And if Auston wants it, too...well, there aren’t a lot of things Auston wants and doesn’t get. Morgan needs some sort of ace up his sleeve. He’ll work his ass off for the Leafs this year, he’s gonna be a leader in the locker room and on the ice, but that still might not be good enough.

He thinks he might have an idea of what could help strengthen his candidacy, however.

~~~~~

Kyle Dubas’ office is a lot different from Lamoriello’s.

It’s the same space, of course, but it’s been transformed. Lou’s office always sort of reminded Morgan of the offices of the mob in The Godfather; lots of wood, sort of uptight and stodgy, perfect for an old man. Hell, there had been an old-timey _globe_ sitting on a shelf, Morgan remembered that well. Kyle has transformed the space into a sleeker, more modern version of its old self. The dark earthy tones have been replaced by fashionable black-and-white color schemes, the chairs are actually comfortable, and there are definitely no globes. Lamoriello’s bulky old desktop computer is missing, as well.

“Mo! They told me you were waiting for me.” Kyle bustles into the room, laptop bag nestled under one arm, bright smile on his face. Morgan’s still not used to his GM calling him _Mo;_ but everything with Kyle is looser, more familiar, friendlier than it ever was with Lou. “I hope everything’s okay. What can I do for you?”

Morgan takes a second to look Kyle over as he slides into his chair (huge black leather, almost like a _throne_...the only item in here that reminds him of Lou’s old tastes). Morgan feels very under-dressed in his team-issued track pants and tech shirt, number 44 on the shoulder, and thinks maybe he should have dressed up a little more as he takes in Kyle’s appearance. Kyle is impeccable in a suit, charcoal grey with a black tie, perfectly tailored. He looks _fantastic._ And for what Morgan’s planning, that’s a plus.

“Oh, everything’s all good. Just fine. I did want to talk to you about something, though.”

Kyle leans back in his chair, making a sweeping gesture at Morgan. “Floor is yours, Mo.”

“Um.” Morgan doesn’t really consider himself a wordsmith, so he gathers his thoughts for a second before continuing. Kyle waits patiently with a small inviting smile. “I wanted to talk about the captaincy. I know this year we have three alternates, and I’m beyond excited to have one and push this team to new heights. But I was wondering if you’d given any thought towards the future.”

Kyle chuckles, swiping off his glasses and snagging a cloth off his desk, cleaning them in short, precise strokes. “Well, this is a bit unusual, eh? The season just started and you’re asking about next year. Always thinking of the future, aren’t you, Mo?”

“Yes sir.”

“Oh no, no no.” Kyle clicks his tongue, setting his glasses back on his nose. “We’ve talked about this. It’s just _Kyle._ Makes me feel too old otherwise. I’m not Lou, eh?”

Morgan breaks into a shy grin, a momentary break from his bravado. “You’re definitely not Lou.” Thank God for that.

“So what brought this on, Mo?”

It’s a hard thing to explain, really, and the truth probably wouldn’t come out well. Instead, Morgan goes with: “I just have a lot of pride in this team, and the opportunity to lead it would mean so much to me.”

“Well, we’re proud of you too. But there’s a lot of leaders in that room, as you know.” Kyle steeples his hands together, looking thoughtful. “You’re in pretty amazing company with the other alternates, Patty and JT. There’s Matty, and then you never know who else you’re going to trade for throughout the year. We’ll keep you in mind, of course, but...I just can’t guarantee anything.”

Morgan’s not terribly surprised at that answer, and he lifts off the chair before he can think too much about it, heading over to the other side of the desk next to Kyle. Kyle’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t scoot his chair back or move, even when Morgan gets very, very close. “I understand your stance,” he says. “But I’m thinking maybe there are some things I can do to sway your opinion about it.”

“Like wh - “ The words aren’t even fully out of Kyle’s mouth when Morgan leans down, puts a hand gently on Kyle’s thigh, and that shuts him right up. He’s a bundle of nerves, because if Morgan has read this wrong, not only is he _not_ getting captaincy, but he’ll probably get the ‘A’ stripped off. Hell, they might suspend him for sexual harassment, or trade him to Ottawa, or, or...a hundred possibilities race through Morgan’s mind. Kyle’s face is neutral and unreadable and his anxiety deepens with every passing second that nothing happens, which feels like forever.

But then a grin slowly, slowly spreads on Kyle’s features, and Morgan realizes that Kyle was making him sweat, that he was pausing on purpose. He casually kicks his chair backwards with one heel of his well-polished shoes, revealing the wide chasm underneath the desk. “Maybe there is something you can do, Mo,” he says, eyes flicking downward into the space he’s just revealed.

“Uh - yeah. Yes. Absolutely, Kyle,” Morgan nods, starting to sink to his knees, but Kyle grabs his wrist before he can do so.

“I think perhaps you _can_ call me ‘sir’, Mo. Hmm?”

Morgan swallows, a loud and audible gulp. “Yes sir,” he breathes, getting to his knees. The carpet underneath him is plush, a soft shag that he’s heard Kyle talk about ripping out and replacing with tile. He’s glad now that those plans haven’t happened yet.

Kyle leans forward, puts his shoe on Morgan’s hip, and nudges. “Under,” he commands, indicating the desk, and Morgan crawls underneath, feeling a little bit like when he was a kid and used to crawl under the dining room table. Except - very much _unlike_ when he was a kid - Kyle keeps his eyes on Morgan, almost aggressive in his staring, while he slowly unbuckles his expensive leather belt. The metal of the buckle as it unhooks makes a loud clang in the quiet room; it makes Morgan’s mouth go a little dry, and he smacks his lips together to get the saliva back.

Kyle smirks a little at the sight, and he pushes open his dress pants once the belt is undone. He doesn’t bother to take off his pants or even untuck his shirt; instead, he just pushes down his briefs and lets his cock spring free. It’s a strange dichotomy, seeing his GM so well put-together, not a hair or thread out of place except for his dick poking out from the open zipper. He’s not quite fully hard yet; Morgan’s going to need to put in the work. “You really want this, Morgan? You want that ‘C’ so bad?” he asks, in a smug tone that says he already knows the answer, he just wants Morgan to _say it._

“Yes, sir.”

“You a good cocksucker, Mo?”

Morgan licks his lips again, swallows nervously. “I - I, uh - let me show you. Sir.”

Kyle slides his chair in, bracketing Morgan under the desk, and he suddenly gets a thrill of claustrophobic panic, but he pushes it down and slithers up between Kyle’s thighs. Nothing to do now but suck, he figures. No turning back now.

It’s a nice dick, at least. Clean, the smell of soap and fresh laundry, well-trimmed. With each pass of Morgan’s mouth up the shaft, Kyle gets just a little harder, until he’s long and thick enough that the next bob puts him down Morgan’s throat, and he has to pull off, choking back a gag. “Don’t be a quitter now, Morgan,” Kyle murmurs, reaching down and patting his cheek, and then hands back up to his desk where Morgan can hear the _tap-tap-tap_ of a keyboard.

“No, sir,” Morgan says, and he’s certainly not going to let his gag reflex fuck this up for him. He takes a deep breath and gets back to work, using every trick he’s ever been taught. Open throat, flat tongue, teeth tucked; he wants Kyle’s entire world to shrink down to his mouth and the pleasure he offers. He wants to remind Kyle that he’s _captain material,_ that he could have this whenever, if he just holds up his end of the bargain.

There’s a sudden sharp _bzzzzz_ of a cell phone vibrating on the desk above him. “Don’t stop,” Kyle says, pushing Morgan’s head down as if to emphasize his point. He clears his throat and answers the call, voice neutral and clear, like he’s not getting his dick sucked at the same time, and his hand stays on Morgan’s head while it bobs up and down. To Morgan’s ears, it sounds like he’s talking to a scout, and he marvels at the ability to keep a conversation going while _this_ is happening.

It’s a short call, and the phone makes a _thunk_ as it’s thrown back on the desk after Kyle hangs up. “Goddamn,” he sighs, and it’s the first time Morgan has heard him sound anything but professional and put-together, a little gravelly growl coming through. “That is a nice mouth on you, Mo. You gonna swallow? No no, don’t stop to answer, I know you are. Keep sucking. You’re gonna swallow _everything.”_

Morgan sort of hopes that he’s talking about swallowing because he’s close to finishing; his mouth is starting to ache a little. Kyle is not a small man, and his throat is going to be well-used after this, he can tell. Sure enough, it’s not long after before Kyle’s hips jerk up, and he tightens a hand in Morgan’s hair and fucks into his throat as he comes, not even the consideration of a warning. But Morgan swallows it all. This isn’t his first time.

“Get out of there,” Kyle demands, wheeling his chair back and meticulously tucking his cock back in his pants. Morgan stands up, knees aching a little bit, and waits for Kyle to refasten his belt before speaking.

“Did you like it? Sir?”

“Not bad,” Kyle says, which rankles Morgan a little bit, because _fuck that,_ he knows it was pretty damn good. “Come back and see me in a few weeks, and bring lube and a condom. I want to fuck your pretty ass over my desk.”

“Uh…” Morgan blinks in surprise. He’s not a _bottom._ Sure, he’s tried it a few times - a guy from juniors, once with Gards - but it never really tickled his fancy.

Kyle’s cleaning his glasses again, and he glances up without moving his head. “Something the matter? I thought you were interested in the captaincy.”

“No, sir - I mean, uh, no nothing’s wrong, I _am_ interested in the captaincy, but - “

“So come see me in a few weeks with lube and condoms.” Kyle drops his eyes back down to his glasses. “Bye, Mo.”

He stares at Kyle for another long beat, but he just keeps on cleaning his glasses, so Morgan mutters a goodbye and heads out of the office, his throat feeling raw and abused.

Lube and condoms it is, he thinks to himself, resigned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is entirely the fault of my beta (sheesusnat) who is also attempting to convince me to write the next installment of Rielly/Dubas. If it's something people want, I'll certainly think about it! (Also, if you like Morgan Rielly, she's got a good fic coming out now, so go read it.)


	3. Morgan Rielly / Kyle Dubas (2)

It’s a rare luxury; over a week at home, and three days without a game for the Maple Leafs. Unfortunately, it happens in mid-October. If they were further into the season, it would be a godsend, a time to rest and recuperate. As it is, Morgan’s just anxious to get back on the ice. Anxious enough that he attends the optional practice skate on their day off, wanting to try out a new chest protector prototype that was just delivered.

It’s a low-key skate, and Morgan’s feeling pretty good when he heads back to the locker room. A voice calls his name just as he’s turning into the room, and when Morgan glances over, he recognizes the young man as Kyle Dubas’ secretary.

Secretary? Is that still what you call them when they’re men? Morgan’s not 100% sure. “Uh, yeah?”

The man offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mr. Dubas would like to see you in his office once you’re done...cleaning up.” These last two words are said with a slight emphasis. Subtle enough that nobody would really notice, but Morgan understands right away, with Kyle’s instructions from the preseason coming back.

In a way, it’s a relief. Morgan has been carrying lube and condoms in his duffel for days now, nestled alongside hair styling products and gym clothes and his team-issued tracksuit. He’s been constantly paranoid that the equipment guys are going to be helpful, pick it up and do his laundry, and see what’s inside. They’d never say anything, but...they’d know. And Morgan would know they know.

He lingers around, carefully shaving and using the bathroom and getting a muscle stretched out while most guys finish showering, and then he hops in and cleans up. The last thing he needs is for Gards to chirp him about his very obvious prep-clean. Not that it’s terribly unusual; guys hook up whether on the road or at home, and that includes bottoming, but Morgan’s a terrible liar, and he knows he’d blush if someone called him out on it.

That same young secretary smiles humorlessly - more of a grimace than a smile - when Morgan shows up outside Kyle’s office. He pointedly glances at his watch, as if Morgan has an appointment he’s late for, and then gestures towards the closed door. “Please go in. Mr. Dubas is expecting you.”

“Thanks,” Morgan mutters, already nervous at the secretary’s demeanor.

Kyle’s office is the same as he remembers it, and the man himself is at his desk, eyes glued to his laptop, tapping away at the keyboard. “Well for how long that took, I expect you’ll be squeaky fucking clean,” Kyle mutters. He doesn’t stop typing, the _clack_ of the keys almost drowning out his voice.

“Sorry, sir.” Morgan tentatively walks up and pauses in front of Kyle’s desk, watching him type. What’s he supposed to do now? Kyle hasn’t given him any indication of next steps.

He watches Kyle type for a few more long moments before his fingers pause over the keyboard, and he glances up sharply at Morgan. “You’re still dressed,” he says, as if that’s a surprise.

“Oh, uh…” Morgan offers a nervous, placating smile, untucking his shirt. He’s dressed a little nicer this time, a button-down and dark wash jeans, but it still doesn’t make him any less nervous about the situation. “You want me naked, sir?”

Kyle’s smile goes syrupy-sweet. “Actually, I thought maybe you wanted to help negotiate Willy’s new contract.”

“Huh?”

His smile abruptly drops into an eyeroll. “Of course I want you naked, Mo. You remember what I asked for?”

“Yes. Yes, sir.” Morgan digs the lube and a condom out of his pocket, unbuttoning his shirt so quickly that he misses one, gets stuck in it for a moment as he tries to pull it off. Kyle’s back to staring at the computer screen while he finishes getting undressed, stripping out of his jeans and underwear. Unlike the last time Morgan saw him - smug, confident, pleased - Kyle seems a little high-strung and stressed out today. He’s heard that upper management is increasingly annoyed over Nylander’s holdout, and that seems to be the case.

Kyle lets Morgan stand there for a long, uncomfortable moment, naked and shifting from foot to foot, before pushing the laptop aside. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and when he pops them open, his smarmy grin from before is back on his face, like he’s forcing himself to relax. “Enough work for now, I think. All work and no play makes Kyle a dull boy, right Mo? Come entertain me. I need a little relaxation.” He gestures to Morgan with two fingers, a _come-here_ gesture, and Morgan dutifully steps around the desk and up to Kyle’s chair.

“Turn around and touch those toes for me, Mo,” Kyle instructs, and after a moment’s hesitation, Morgan does just that. His heart is hammering in his chest, so open and exposed, ass jutting out towards Kyle. He can’t help but jerk away in surprise when Kyle presses his thumb against Morgan’s entrance, clucks in mock-dismay. “You’re not ready to be fucked. That’s disappointing. Unless you have some kind of pain fetish I don’t know about? I never would have pegged you for it, but I’ve seen stranger things.”

“I - no, oh no,” Morgan squeaks. “I didn’t know you wanted…”

“Did you think _I_ want to do the work to get you ready?” Kyle chuckles, and then there’s a loud fleshy _smack_ as he open-palm spanks Morgan, one cheek and then the other. Morgan bites back a whimper, and Kyle laughs again. “That’s two for being a bad boy, Mo. Now why don’t you go grab that lube and get that ass ready for my cock, hmm?”

Morgan stumbles over to the other side of the desk, grabbing the lube and staring dumbly at it. He rarely bottoms, and he especially never gets _himself_ ready for it. He tries to think back to last time he got fucked; Gards’ long fingers inside him, gently pumping and twisting, petting the small of his back and his hip with his other hand as he whispered soft encouragement while Morgan whined into the pillow.

Kyle is _watching_ him, he notices with a nervous realization, and all that he can do is pop the cap on the lube and take a deep, shaky breath.

He ends up slumped in a chair, legs propped against the desk, hand stuck in between his thighs while he opens himself up. It’s an awkward angle, and he can’t get past the second knuckle, but he can’t find anything better. He makes up for it by using more and more lube, probably too much of it, until his thighs and hand are a mess of slick. Kyle watches the whole time, silent, hands folded on the desk like he’s watching a negotiation tactic. In a way, Morgan supposes, he is; this whole thing is a business negotiation. He tries to look calm and confident, pushing down the voice screaming that he must look awful right now, squished into a tiny chair in an unflattering angle, doing a terrible job of prep. Morgan wishes he would go back to his laptop.

He doesn’t. “You should smile a little, sweetheart,” Kyle tells him. “You’ll look a lot prettier if you smile. Maybe act like you’re enjoying it just a little bit, huh? Convince me you’re eager? A captain should always be up for a good challenge.”

“I’ll be smiling when you’re inside me,” Morgan chances, going for _bold,_ and he knows it’s the right move when Kyle’s eyes go wide and he sits up a little taller.

“Well I can’t wait to see that sweet smile, Mo, so get your ass over here.” He pats his lap; Morgan notices his belt is undone, zipper cracked open, but just like last time he’s not hard yet. “You have a little work to do first.”

Morgan gets dutifully on his knees, offering a slow smile upwards while he jerks his hand on Kyle’s half-hard cock. He tries to look eager, accommodating, genuine. It’s all for show, but hopefully Kyle can’t tell. “There’s that smile,” Kyle praises. “Now let’s see your mouth doing something else.”

Unlike last time, when Kyle was the picture of nonchalance over his blowjob, this time his hands fist in Morgan’s hair and he bucks up into the warm heat of Morgan’s mouth. Today, he seems to want to take control of something. To remind himself who’s in charge, and Morgan lets him thrust into his mouth until he’s hard enough to scrape the back of his throat, where he pulls off with a cough and a splutter.

“Gotta fix that gag reflex,” Kyle notes as he stands up and pushes back his chair, letting his trousers fall to his ankles. His dick - hard, now - is a jarring sight against his expensive suit coat, tie, and button-down, which he doesn’t seem inclined to remove. He makes a circular motion with his finger - _turn around_ \- and Morgan doesn’t need it spelled out; he turns and drapes himself across the desk, trying not to quiver like a virgin rookie while Kyle rips open the condom and rolls it on.

Morgan huffs a loud grunt at the first blunt pressure, and suddenly Kyle’s palm is draped across his mouth. “My assistant is right outside, you want him to hear you being a little slut?” he hisses in Morgan’s ear.

Morgan shakes his head, eyes watering as Kyle bottoms out. “Uh-uh,” he whimpers.

“Then you should shut your whore mouth.” Kyle pats his cheek condescendingly. “I know I’m big, but take it like a man, Mo.”

Kyle leaves his hand pressed over Morgan’s mouth as he starts moving, because Morgan can’t help it, every thrust punches out a little whine as he pants hot against Kyle’s hand. Kyle sets a relentless pace, hard and pounding, not caring at all for Morgan’s pleasure. Morgan’s legs feel a little shaky, and he scrabbles for purchase on the slippery desk, accidentally dumping a few sheets of paper on the floor.

“Idiot,” Kyle hisses, cuffing him on the side of the head. “Put your hands behind your back, so I can make sure you’re not fucking my desk up any more.”

“Sorry,” he whimpers into Kyle’s hand, although it comes out muffled, more like _soway_ , and Kyle grabs his wrists and he feels nothing but helpless, hands behind his back, mouth covered, hard thrusts bouncing him off the big wooden desk. The rhythmic _squeak_ of the desk is obscene, Kyle’s grunts and groans even more so.

God, this had better be worth it.

The only way Morgan can tell when Kyle comes is his hips get a little snappier, and his fingernails dig into Morgan’s cheek as his hand curls involuntarily. And then it’s over, the warm body draped along his back suddenly missing, and Kyle is patting his rump almost affectionately, as if he didn’t just smack Morgan a few minutes ago. “Next time, maybe I’ll pull out and come on your face. Or maybe you can ride me.”

“Next time?” Morgan whips his head around, eyes wide as he stares at Kyle’s smirk.

“I told you before, Mo, you’ve got some stiff competition for captain. It’s going to be a long year of guys proving themselves. But of course, you can stop any time. I’m not _forcing_ you to do this. It just...strengthens your candidacy, that’s all.” Kyle ties off the condom, sets to work putting himself back together.

“How often?”

That pauses Kyle, whose blasé smile drops off his face for a moment. “As often as I fucking want,” he snaps, before the bland business smile is back on his face. “I’ll let you know, Mo. Give you plenty of time to prep. No surprises from me.” He must register Morgan’s crestfallen expression, because he shrugs. “Feel free to say no.”

Morgan is not going to say no. Not when he’s already come this far.

He’s nearly dressed and out the door - Kyle is long since put back together, and typing again on his laptop - when he’s called back inside. “Actually, Mo, one more thing?”

“Yes sir?”

“Well, two more.” Kyle gestures to the papers that Morgan dropped off the desk. “First, pick those up. Second...I was joking before about Willy, but if there’s anything you can do to make him more, ah, amenable to our negotiations, you have my blessing.”

Morgan frowns as he scoops the documents off the floor. “What am I supposed to do?”

“God, I don’t know. Tell him to stop being such a little bitch, maybe?” Kyle gestures dismissively. “Forget about it. I think Auston might have an idea or two, I’ll let him deal with it.”

_Auston?_ Oh, hell no. Morgan draws himself up to his full height. “I’ll think of something, sir.”

Kyle offers a patronizing little smile. “There’s my boy,” he says. “Goodbye, Mo. See you soon.”

“Bye, sir,” Morgan mumbles, heading back out the door. This time, the secretary doesn’t even bother to look up at him.

Morgan’s grateful for that, he’s pretty sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhhhh this is going to end with a Morgan / Auston powerplay thing, isn't it? Egads.


End file.
